


The Ash Is In Our Clothes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALS, Angst, He's dying lads and gents., M/M, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2779781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are scared he will blind you<br/>Or burn you<br/>You know he will</p><p>But you cannot turn away</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ash Is In Our Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know.  
> Don't ask.

_"Your boy is a soldier_  
 _And his mouth tastes like_  
 _Fear and blood, dust, fire_  
 _Home_  
 _And battlefield_  
  
 _'The galaxy, a thousand suns._  
 _All there ever will be,' he said_  
 _When you asked him_  
 _What did he think_  
 _Was his to conquer_  
  
 _Your boy is a supernova_  
 _Amorphous, ethereal, incandescent_  
 _You are scared he will blind you_  
 _Or burn you_  
 _You know he will_  
  
 _But you cannot turn away"_

* * *

There's an emptiness luring. Creeping in the corners and the walls. Flashes of ghostlike memories behind closed lids. White and harsh and crystalline cold, breath freezing mid-air, frozen particles falling to the floor; tingling and glimmering in the faint, northern light.

"Jim." A soft voice, a softer touch. A hard glare. Dark curls and razorblade angles, a mess of dark, lugubrious colours and white, marble skin. 

"Don't leave me here." A whisper, tickling at his ears. Warm breath turning cold before his skin has the chance of basking in the heat.  
Sherlock's hands are locked together in front of his chest, clasping his shirt, fabric rippled; white waves without a storm. An embrace enforced upon him who doesn't want to be held like this.

Not like this.

Not when death is waiting at the door, with cocked guns and sharpened nails. Scratching initials into the wood. His initials.

Not when this disease is eating away at him, leaving him to rot from the inside. To decay underneath translucent skin; dark blue veins shimmering through.

"I'm dying, Sherlock," his scratchy voice replies, words echoing inside his brain. Dying. Dying.

There's a difference between wanting death and dying. The wanting is temporary, a striving. Dying is nothing but pain and fingertips going numb and the cold eating his bones. Muscles giving up and desperate fights for air.

"Take me with you." It's a demand. A plead. A desperate wish for absolution and eternity.

Because they were never granted those things.

Sherlock and Jim were never supposed to be forever.

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

"I will burn the heart out of you," Jim whispers. Voice harsh and eyes cold. He can feel insanity tugging at the corners of his lips, tugging, forcing them upwards into a killer smile. Teeth visible, tugging at his bottom lip.

"You won't."

It could be as simple as that.

Except it isn't.

He's going to kill Sherlock. He's going to bring down this shiny prodigy. This example of everything he wanted but never got. 

Metal in his hand, shiny and cold. Heavy. Fingertips going numb.

They keep going numb.

He can hear Sherlock's heart-beat. Mocking him. Every thump proving he's alive. Alive and breathing and healthy.

His heartbeat is a death march. The Last Post and the audioversion of what it feels like to be a dead man.

"Even if it's the last thing I do." Arsenic and castor in his gums. Words laced with poison and the faint taste of blood.

* * *

Once his life was white. Pure white; fresh snow and daisies and bleak clouds on too hot days. Now it's stained and sullied with drops of crimson. Roses and sunsets and the blood that runs through his veins. His heart is still pumping; unaware of its unnecessity; not knowing it's in vain. 

* * *

 

He doesn't know how this happened. Why he let this happen. One moment there was swaying metal and threatening words, the next there were warm lips on his own and hands burying themselves into his hair.

He stands there, lets himself be kissed. Lets Sherlock open his mouth with his own lips, forcing his tongue inside. He tastes like Earl Grey and cigarette smoke. He tastes alive.

It makes it easier for him. Or no, it makes it less difficult. Less difficult for him to lean in and lick out the taste.

Waiting for it to come to an end.

* * *

London looks beautiful today. He hates this city. This city that bathes in the buzz of swaying hearts and laughter and happiness. "You're a dying man," Sherlock observates, ever so cold. No emotions colouring his voice; no feelings emblazoned on his harsh features. 

Indifference.

But he grabs Jim's hand and Jim knows it could be pity. It could be mercy; a useless act of charity.

And then he pulls him closer and holds his head against his chest. The heart beneath still beating boldly.

He realises this isn't pity.

It's hurting him.

* * *

 

His hand is tracing the outlines of Sherlock's muscles, ever so visible underneath the creamy skin. Playful soft strokes and nails scratching without leaving marks.

As they kiss again it feels like heat is spiking underneath the apex of his unforgiving heart. Breaths ragged and lips bitten red, they part, only to close the gap again. Their shadows dancing; a messy waltz displayed on the wall.

Sherlock breaks for air. Pupils dilated and lips parted, glimmering with saliva.

"You're burning me. You're burning the heart out of me."

See, it never was that simple.

* * *

 

"I wish I could give you forever."

"You can give me now. That's enough for me."

* * *

 

It's going downhill, he realises. He realises it as Sherlock's asleep in the bed they've been sharing for the past months and he's trying to get dressed. He tries to grab the buttons, tries to push them through the holes on the other side of the fabric.

It's not working.

Salt coating his eyes, wetting his cheeks.

The weariness in his bones is pulling him down.

Forcing him to lay down again, his head buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck.

 

* * *

* * *

There's a tear, a single liquid gem, making its way down Sherlock's cheek.

(He looks so displaced here. Here, between hills out of snow and nordic lights paiting the sky. )

If he could, he would wipe it away. 

He would cup Sherlock's cheek and stroke his thumb over his lips. 

Whispering something along the lines of it's going to be fine. 

But it's not. 

And he can't. 

 

 


End file.
